


skin-deep

by emmram



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gore, Horror, Multi, dark!d'Artagnan, relationships hinted at but not the focus; hence not tagged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 09:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4872382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmram/pseuds/emmram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>d’Artagnan has found purpose in the wake of his disastrous trip to Paris. It’s not what he expected, but it is what he craves.</p>
<p>unapologetic, spur-of-the-moment dark!d’artagnan fic. please heed the warnings at the top.</p>
            </blockquote>





	skin-deep

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: series 1 spoilers. references to self-harm. gore, disturbing imagery. disordered storytelling, second-person pov and the pretentiousness doesn’t stop there. really, really weird and probably doesn’t make much sense.

_one_.

you’ve always known.

_twelve_.

athos has had too much to drink tonight; he sleeps like the dead, mouth hanging open and a silvery line of drool stretching to the pillow. you remove his locket silently, because you have to _see_ –

–for yourself, you have to _know_ –

and there it is, like an infection: the mottled green mark around his neck. you run your finger gently over it, and athos shudders. your hands itch to hold a blade and slice it neatly along that scar, but for now you settle for a kiss. athos smiles, even asleep.

_eight._

porthos has so many scars, but he shines like the sun in your eyes and curling up next to him is the closest you’ve felt to being home in over a year. he tucks you under his arm, sometimes, as if inviting you to plant yourself inside his chest and let him sustain the both of you. it isn’t nearly enough to compensate for the way his hands are always stained with blood and leave rust-red stains on your skin that no amount of scrubbing will clean, but it’s _something_. 

he’ll die the fastest, you decide.

_three._

you’re enraptured by the sight of mendoza’s bloated body floating in a pool of bloody water when you feel the tip of a dagger-point press into your back. “make a single sound and i’ll sever your spine in the next breath,” comes a woman’s voice.

it can only belong to the woman that you saw downstairs: her voice slithers and coils like the living rope around her neck. you let out a sigh.

“i was looking forward to doing this myself, you know,” you say. for a split second, the pressure of her dagger eases, and you spin, pinning her against the wall, one hand swiftly divesting her of her knife and the other tangled in the rope.

“my first,” you say, grinning like your face will crack. “tell me there are more like you. _tell me_.”

“there are,” she breathes as you draw blood.

_five_.

there’s nothing special about emil bonnaire. you make a mark on him anyway as you take him into the docks at le havre.

he does make for a considerably more docile passenger on the spanish ship with half his face burned off.

_ten._

the scales on aramis’ hand are cold as he brushes your thigh; he kisses with a snake’s tongue, darting in and out without rhythm or reason. you want to kill him, you want to kill him _right now_ , but he leaves you hanging for that as he leaves you hanging for everything else.

“the apprentice musketeer,” he calls you, teasing, slithering beneath you. you smile and wonder how much more supple his body would be once you’ve broken his spine.

_two_.

you think you know why your father’s taking you to paris. oh, he talks about taxes and petitions to the king, but he’s only ever looked worried about you. he trembles at the marks you’ve carved into your skin and onto every wall of the house–but those are only there because you haven’t really met anybody like you. you’re waiting. 

then he dies in your arms and says _athos_  with his last breath, and it feels like benediction.

you ride to paris to kill.

_six._

“she scares me,” constance says. “but she warned me about _you_.”

“i can handle her,” you say, staring at her bare neck.

_fourteen_.

milady clutches at athos’ arm around her neck as you and porthos and aramis enter the square. “kill him, athos!” she cries. “kill him, _kill him now_!”

athos hesitates, then lifts his gun slowly, falteringly, to point at you. aramis and porthos remain silent.

“i can’t fight him any longer,” she whimpers. “i _told_  you–there’s something wrong with him. there’s something terribly, horribly wrong with him.”

the blood drips from porthos’ shining hands, aramis’ scales glitter in the lantern-light, and milady’s rope is seeking out the infection on athos’ neck like a long-lost lover. you’ve finally found them–you’ve found as many as you need. you’ve never felt happier.

“d’artagnan,” athos says, almost sorrowfully.

“i love you,” you say, even as he shoots and the bullet pierces between your ribs. “ _i love you all–_ ”

_nine._

you find labarge a bit boring, to be honest. but when you scream and rip your sword through skin and sinew and all of the soft blubbery flesh caught between, the crowd screams and your friends glow. 

this is your reward for art, and it makes you want to cry.

_four._

the three disarm you like you’re a little boy playing with a wooden sword and shake you off their boots like you’re so much horse dung.

milady was right: they’re _beautiful_ , all of them, and more importantly: they’re special, just like you. just like milady. you can _see_  it, and it’s breathtaking.

_eleven_.

“i love you,” you tell constance.

she blinks. “what?”

“just practising,” you say.

she nods distantly. “if you would practise as far away from me as possible, that would be even better,” she says, and you can’t really argue with that. you imagine slicing off those nimble fingers anyway. for personal reasons.

_thirteen_.

“i have a plan,” you tell athos. you’re sprawled over him while aramis lies flush against your back and porthos drools at your feet. “we can capture her once and for all.”

athos nods dazedly. somewhere inside you, a clock is ticking its last hours. they’ll all be together tomorrow, just like she’s promised from the beginning, and you’re so excited you think you’re going to be sick.

_seven_.

there’s a forget-me-not on your pillow one afternoon. you smile. you have gotten everything she said you would and more, and you will not forget to reward her.

you leave vadim’s sliced ear as a token at her door for the time being.

**_finis_ **


End file.
